Sawdust Between Our Toes

It was that time again! The delightful sound of popping corn could be heard from upstairs, as I pulled my nighty quickly over my head.

The overflow that popped out of the pan and onto the kitchen floor had also become a tradition. It signified an over abundance—plenty for Dad and me. I would follow my Dad into the living room and climb up on his knee, situate myself comfortably against his chest and prepare for an evening of popcorn and that 'special' attention that set me apart from my six brothers. It didn't matter what show he was watching. In fact I don't think I even watched television. I had other matters to attend to.

"Be right back Dad..."

I would slide down to the floor and skip up the stairs.

"Now you boys go to sleep! We're downstairs eating popcorn!"

I'm sure my brothers, especially the three older ones, appreciated my decrees. I'd run back downstairs, and hop back up on Dad's lap to continue our 'special' private party.

For a time I think I actually believed my name was "...my only daughter," because that is the only way I was introduced. "...and this is my only daughter!" I kind of liked the name, because there were some definite benefits attached to it. Around 1956, during Eisenhower's Presidency, my Dad nicknamed me Mamie. The First Lady and I had something in common—bangs. That name stuck and followed me until this day.

Was my relationship with my Dad rare? I think it was. And from those special little parties, until his final days, our relationship never changed—it only became closer.

My husband and I have often joked about the aspect of marriage that is reminiscent of the old 45 records from the 50's and early 60's; that is, when you fall in love with the person of your dreams, you are smitten by the "Hit"—not ever considering that every hit has a flip side. It was common knowledge that the flip side was a song that didn't quite make it—you rarely played it.

But in every marriage you get to listen to both sides—whether you like it or not!

My dad, no doubt, was a hit in my book—but he also had a flip side, as we all do. I can say honestly that in my life, I rarely had the experience of getting on the wrong side of my dad. And that could be an uncomfortable place to be. Oh, there were a few times that stand out in my mind—like the night of my first date, when the young man's watch was not in synch with my dad's and I arrived home ten minutes late. He was not one to hide his displeasure at such a moment.

I hope that if ever someone were to write about me, they would write about the hit and not the flip side.

So I will leave the flip side where it belongs—face down.

Who wants to listen to it anyway?

This is not however, an attempt to put my Dad up on a pedestal. He would not appreciate that. He would be the first to tell you that he was a man of many failings and weaknesses. Yet there was something about that man that made us an unusually close family and took the heart out of each one of us when he had to leave. It certainly was not that he was the perfect father, or the greatest provider. Just what was it that so endeared him to us all?

I do not believe I would attempt to write this if I did not already know the wonderful ending. But please don't peek—I had to wait many years to see it come to pass.